Do not worry, Karim. I will launch a strong appeal to the Dean of Faculty of Science and the VC. Maybe we can reverse this.

Thank you, David.

But knowing what I know, I say to myself: ‘Fat chance.’ At home, Farida is flabbergasted. Her first words are: ‘What will happen to our baby?’ I give her a big hug and tell her we are young and strong. We can give the best of care to our baby wherever we go. The news spreads like wildfire across the campus. Many friends and comrades come to inquire in person. A meeting of my close comrades is held at the home of Joe Kanywanyi. Their comments are:

It is a nasty form of political retribution, no doubt.

It is payback for your activism, Karim.

We should protest. But how?

There is no room for questioning the legality of the move. According to the contract I signed at the start of my undergraduate studies, I am pledged upon graduation to go, for the next five years, wherever I am posted by the government. Politically, it will sound particularly odd. The rightists will mock:

You radicals, you shout in the name of workers and peasants. Now that you are being sent to help the peasants, you wish to remain in a comfortable environment.

The university authorities could have appealed my transfer on the grounds of misallocation of qualified manpower. But obviously, they are also behind it. So I give my friends my decision:

It is not the end of the world. If the mathematics department cannot do anything, then I am going to Sumbawanga. There is no need to do anything else. It won’t work.

The next day, as I pack my books and files in my office, Dr. Cappitt enters in a clearly dejected spirit:

I am sorry about this. Karim, I am told there is no way to reverse the decision. It comes from the highest office. What a shame!

That evening, we meet Farida’s mother and my parents. They too are shocked. My father has an instant solution:

All your friends have left for Canada. You are smart. Go study at a university there. You will get a scholarship, and I can pitch in financially. Call Farida over a few months later, and start a new life, away from this godforsaken place. You have been a stooge of Nyerere. Where has it taken you? Into the jungle. Forget him and think of your family.

He refers to the ongoing exodus of the Ismailia community to Canada. Most of my relatives and childhood friends are now in Toronto, Calgary, Edmonton and Vancouver. But all in my immediate family remain here. So he wants me to initiate our move to the new land.

But I am in no mood to be disloyal to my land of birth. It has nurtured and educated me. I distinguish between the people and the government. Fundamentally, my contract is with the former, not the latter. The government that is treating me unfairly is at the same time oppressing my people. I will stand with them, be it in Sumbawanga or elsewhere.

Farida’s mother is not happy at this turn of events but does not object. The most heartwarming thing is the unconditional support from Farida. While a bit apprehensive, she categorically says that she goes wherever I go. She too has the nationalistic spirit, imbibed from her staunchly leftist brother, Issa Shivji.

So Sumbawanga it is. As Farida’s pregnancy has been a complicated one, we decide that I will go first, and come to collect her after the baby is born. She quits her job as the secretary of the Dean of the Faculty of Science, and puts up with her mother in the city.

TO SUMBAWANGA

I board the bus to Mbeya, a major town in the south, around noon time in the first week of April 1974. By the dawn of the next day, I am there. It has been raining. The trip along the recently paved Tanzania Zambia highway was not tiring. A tad short on sleep, nothing more.

The second phase of my journey, from here to Sumbawanga, is about a third of the distance covered thus far. The bus is full, and it is raining. After the initial 20 kilometers, the rest of the 200 kilometers traverse a muddy and hilly terrain. The noon time bus is scheduled to arrive at my final destination at 6 pm in the evening.

It continues to rain; the road is slippery. To avoid skidding, the driver reduces speed. Now and then, we feel a jolt from a tire dipping into a watery pothole. The real trouble begins when we reach the first steep hill. Barely twenty meters up the incline, the bus begins to skid back. It cannot ascend any further. The driver has no choice but to bring it to a full stop. He explains the situation:

The road is too steep and slippery. The bus is too heavy to go up.

Do we have to go back?

No. All the passengers have to disembark. Then I can take the bus up.

What about us?

I am sorry but you have to walk to the top.

Fortunately for us, it has ceased to rain. So that is what we do. And that is what we do again and again, six times in all, during this trip. If it is raining, we wait until there is a pause before disembarking and trudging up the hill.

As the roosters croack, we enter the awakening town, exhausted to the bone. It is chilly, windy but dry. A six hour journey has taken eighteen hours. Dragging my bag, I make my way to the home of Mehdi Mitha, a distant cousin who runs a clothing and household goods store. He is a veteran of this town.

I am received warmly. A hot bath, a load of fresh chapatis with honey and a boiled egg later, I hit the sack. The next morning I report to the office of the Regional Development Director (RDD). It is in a newly built one story complex, a twenty minute walk from where my cousin lives. I am expected. My first task is to fill out work and salary forms in the personnel office. My job title is Planning Officer.

I am shown the office of the Regional Planning Officer (RPO), my immediate boss. He is not around. I am to sit in a room adjacent to his office. I find a friendly young fellow, an Assistant Planning Officer. A large table with three chairs is in the middle. It bears a few files and office papers, and a large pile of newspapers. Four filing cabinets stand near the walls.

He tells me his name is John. He has his own chair. I can choose any from the other two. With the RPO, we constitute the entire regional planning team.

What am I supposed to do?

The mzee (old man) will tell you. Just relax and get used to this place for now.

Then he gives some crucial advice. Punctuality is essential. I must report at work by 7:30 am, and leave the office at 2:30 pm. A few minutes late will get me a warning letter from the RDD. If I am persistently tardy, I will be in bad trouble. He says it gravely, but he does not spell out what it means.

After showing me the washroom and water taps, he points to a place where vendors sit. They sell bananas and roasted groundnuts. I am pleased to find a friendly, helpful office mate. I like him. It is a good start in a new place. Back in the office, he tells me:

There are newspapers here. You can read them if you like. But the latest one is two weeks old. The office of the prime minister in Dar sends them by bus every two weeks. If we are lucky, your bus has carried a new batch. Once the senior staff have looked at them, they are placed in our office.

That is how the rest of the day goes. The next day I do the same. It is in the middle of the third day that a short, stocky jovial man walks in.

Ah, you must be Hirji. Welcome, welcome. I have been waiting for you. We need a person who knows about data collection and statistics. You are from the university, so I am sure you will be of great help to us.

He is my boss, the RPO. An informal, friendly boss, I tell myself. Maybe I can make a worthy contribution to this region.

Thank you, I will try my best. Where should I start?

Ah, Hirji, there is no hurry. You need to settle down. John will show you our previous reports to the PMO. Read them and look at our files.

This I do for the next three weeks. During this time, the RPO is away on safari. John tells me he is inspecting projects in the villages. Towards the end of my first month, the boss calls me.

Karim, the financial year is soon to end. I need information from the Regional Agriculture, Education and Health Officers for our report. I want you to remind them to give it to us on time. I especially want to know if their budget allocation has been appropriately spent and what their needs for the next financial year are. This is very important.

I will do that promptly. I have read our reports as you told me to do, and have made a plan for a region wide survey to get more accurate and relevant information on education and health.

He eyes me sharply, but then smiles.

Oh, Hirji, that is good, very good. I am going to a meeting in Mbeya tomorrow. We can talk about it when I come back.

Tracking down those officers and reminding them to send in their reports is accomplished in no time. But the talk about a regional statistical survey never transpires. He is rarely around. And when he is, he is always rushing to a meeting, talking with the RDD, or signing important papers. Yet, every day I am at work before 7:30 and leave exactly at 2:30. My office mate does the same. We munch roasted ground nuts, read and reread newspapers. We make sure a work file is open in front of us all the time, and a pen and a notebook are handy. It is essential that a passerby sees office staff engaged in work. As far as planning for regional development is concerned, that basically is going to be the norm during my time in Sumbawanga.

FAMILY LIFE

I talk to my boss about family issues. I desire to go Dar es Salaam. He is most helpful.

Look Karim, some important papers have to be sent to the PMO. You take them. I will authorize your trip.

On the third day of May 1974, I am reunited with Farida at her mother’s place. And I am just in time. Two days later, she gets the contractions. I speedily take her to the nearby Agakhan Hospital. Her mother comes along. She is admitted immediately into the maternity ward. Anxiously, we wait outside. But it is a short wait. In less than an hour, an all smiles nurse emerges:

Congratulations. It is a baby girl. Baby and mother are both fine.

Farida had a breech delivery; our baby is underweight. A long bus trip is not advisable at the moment. We agree that I will come back after two months. Before I return to Rukwa, a queer name changing episode transpires.

Farida and I like the name Rosa, the first name of the heroic German socialist, Rosa Luxemburg. But my mother does not approve. She says it is a European name. She wants a name that reflects our traditions. At the baptismal event in the Ismaili prayer house that evening, she puts an Ismaili name, ‘Rozemin,’ on the birth form.

Farida is not aware. When I see it, I am livid. The first thing I do in the morning is go to the Registrar of Births, have the form nullified, and a new form filled with the name changed. The clerk says it is the most rapid name change he has ever witnessed. I say that there was a misunderstanding, and as the father, I have the final word. Yet, to my mother, our baby is ‘Rozemin’ for about a year. Eventually, she relents and fondly begins to call her Rosa. It is a sign of the culture wars of that era, a clash between provincialism and humanistic cosmopolitanism.

In late June, I am permitted to go to Dar es Salaam to collect my family. Fortunately, a husband-wife team of expatriate researchers from UDSM are heading to Sumbawanga at that time. They kindly agree to give us a ride. With a night in Mbeya, we are at our new home in Sumbawanga in thirty six hours. Only one problem arises during the trip. An hour from Mbeya, Rosa develops an excruciating earache. She cries uncontrollably. It only subsides when a doctor in Mbeya gives her ear drops. To our relief, she falls asleep instantly. For the rest of the trip, she is as playful as ever.

Three days after my first arrival in Sumbawanga, I had found a place to stay in the backyard of a building owned by a local businessman. It consists of a 6 by 6 meter room and a tiny outhouse, with a hole-in-the-ground toilet. The walls and roof are tin sheets. Cooking is done on charcoal and kerosene stoves outside the room. The rent is low but it is not what I prefer for my family. I fill a housing application at the regional office. But my rank in the hierarchy is not high enough, and I am on my own. So my application is put on the back burner.

This is the new home for my family. Yet, we are happy. We are together; we play with our child, and enjoy the fine dishes Farida cooks. The room is pretty cold at night. We keep warm with two blankets, and by huddling together. Two weeks later, my father comes to visit. He has supplies like powdered milk and a bundle of snacks cooked by mother. He is appalled at what he sees:

Is this the place for a London educated university lecturer?

Fortunately, just a week later, seeing that my wife and child are now with me, the housing office allocates me a governmental house at the outskirts of the business area, a mile from my work place. It is a large single story structure built for colonial officers in the 1930s. The walls are of mud plastered onto wood beams. The roof is tin sheets. But there is a ceiling board, though an ancient one, under the roof.

It has a living room in the center, an 8 by 8 meters bedroom on the right, and on the left, a bedroom half that size plus a small store room. The living room opens on the other side on to a large low walled backyard, at the end of which there lies four small sheds, next to each other. From extreme right, you see a hole-in-the-ground toilet, a water heating shed with a Samovar and piles of logs and charcoal, the kitchen and last, a storage shed. The backyard is jagged stones from one end to another. You have to walk with care.

The place has not been maintained. Small holes and cracks pepper the walls. Paint is peeling wherever you cast your eyes. Nonetheless, for us, it is a heavenly delight. At last our baby can sleep in a warm place, better protected from wind and rain.

So begins a comfortable ritual that will last fourteen months. Waking up at six, I light the ancient charcoal samovar in the shed. After freshening up with the hot water, Farida prepares breakfast in the kitchen as I dress. My belly full, I depart for work while she wakes up Rosa, cleans and feeds her.

At 3 pm, I am back at home. Rosa is crawling around the living room. She grins and scratches my face as I pick her up. Hot, aroma laden lunch awaits. After a short siesta, on most days, the three of us take a long walk around town.

Our favorite route goes up hill to the Catholic Church. Built in the colonial times, it is the most elegant structure in town. What especially draws us is the expansive, well maintained, colorful garden that lies around it. We traverse the multiple mini-paths that run across it. Rosa is set down in places to allow her to quench her unlimited curiosity. Though, we have to be watchful. She can pluck a leaf or take a stone and put it in her mouth with astonishing speed.

Twice a week, we visit my cousin Mehdi. Rahim, their baby boy, is of Rosa’s age. It is enchanting to see them engrossed with each other. Invariably, we are given dinner. Razia, his wife, is an expert cook. There is a mountain of chapatis and delightful vegetable or meat curry. After the edifying dinner, we walk home with a sleepy Rosa around 7 pm, a flash light in hand. It is a five minute walk.

Evening time has its own ritual. As darkness descends, Rosa is placed in her cot. I light a regular kerosene lamp, and Petromax, a pressurized kerosene lamp.  The latter brightens up the living room like a large electrical tube light. Soon Farida has dinner laid out. We eat our meals on a mat placed on the floor. As she feeds Rosa, I set ten mouse traps, each with a piece of bread as bait. I place them under the cot, under our bed and near the walls. After Farida securely places Rosa in her cot, and she is under the mosquito net, I put out the two lamps and crawl into the bed as well.

The moment it is dark and quiet, the top of ceiling board seethes with life. The resident mice scurry around: they smell food. We hear them descending the walls. Suddenly, there is a snapping sound, then another, then another, until the entire colony of pests takes flight in fright. I emerge from the bed with my flashlight to find three to five mice writhing in the traps. Picking them up with due care, I toss them into the backyard, and return to bed in relief. For this night, our baby will be safe from the nasty creatures. As an added measure of protection, each long leg of Rosa’s cot stands in a bucket of water.

Our young house worker, Hamisi, comes in around eight. The first thing he does is to collect the dead mice and bury them in our small garden outside. He has planted maize, tomato and green pepper. The mice fertilize it well. A jolly fellow, he helps Farida with washing, cleaning, sweeping and buying fruits and vegetables from the market. He looks after Rosa when her mother cooks. By and large, that is the normal manner of our life in Sumbawanga.

MATHEMATICS CLUB

The Kantalamba Secondary School lies two hundred meters from our office. Enrolling about 350 students in Forms I to IV, it is the only secondary school around. There are twelve teachers on the staff. One of them is Mehdi’s younger brother, Firoze. Having been there for more than five years, he has a ton of tales to tell me about the place.

One day I find a ‘data collection’ type of excuse to visit it during work hours. My actual aim is to meet the mathematics teachers and discuss issues about teaching. To my pleasant surprise, I find that the only mathematics teacher was my student at UDSM.

We talk. I propose that we start a mathematics club at the school. One afternoon per week, I will give hour long talks on different topics and assign a variety of exercises. He likes the idea, and so does the headmaster.

For the next six months, each Wednesday from 2:30 to 3:30 in the afternoon, I conduct the club activities. About fifteen students attend on a voluntary basis. I talk about mathematical paradoxes, logical conundrums, and enigmas, a field now known as recreational mathematics. After demonstrating the solution to a puzzle, I at times set a similar problem they can tackle on their own. Now and then, I mention practical applications of mathematics in agriculture, industry, health and transportation.

I aim to give them an introduction into the early history of maths. I have a book on the subject, and I had borrowed another one from the UDSM library using the card of a fellow university lecturer. The students are fascinated by the diversity of ways in which mathematics developed in ancient Babylon, India, China, Egypt and Greece. I venture into the general history of these societies as well, and relate mathematics to the level of economic development.

It is a fun and rewarding activity. Instead of rereading old newspapers, I read relevant books and prepare the club lecture in the office. So long as I am seen doing something, no one gives a hoot what it is.

To my surprise, the self-reliance farming project at the school is well organized and fairly productive. Upon five years of operation, the revenue from the project was used to start a small shop. Located in the school compound, it is run by the students. But this is not the norm. Other school self-reliance projects in the primary schools of this area have failed due to mismanagement and misappropriation by the head teachers.

Yet, there is a high level of discontent among the students. It is manifested in frequent incidents of rebellion like fights and class boycotts. The headmaster is too strict. Some teachers punish students in very painful ways. One day a student is hit on the head with a stick, has a deep gash and is sent to hospital. The case is hushed up.

As this type of instability continues, I am not comfortable with showing up at this school on a regular basis. The higher ups can say or do anything. They may say that it is this radical fellow from UDSM who is inciting the students.

The club runs on a regular basis for six months. A foundation is laid. The mathematics teacher can build upon it. I donate my book to the club and bid them farewell. I also write a short article on aspects of the history of mathematics., based on my talks at the club. It is published in the journal of the Mathematics Association of Tanzania a few months later.

A FORAY INTO HISTORY

I open the three old, rusty filing cabinets that have not been touched in ages. Perusing systematically, I see that files date back to the 1940s. I am transported to the colonial and early Uhuru days. A wealth of material on the developmental initiatives undertaken by the government officials lies buried herein. I learn about what transpired and the eventual outcomes.

Once upon a time, this region was a major food producer. It exported dried fish, beef, millet, fruits and vegetables, much of it to the copper mining areas of Zambia. There were a few large settler farms, but most of the produce came from small scale peasant farmers and fishermen. Apart from a couple of exceptions, that productive configuration lies by the wayside now. I see no current plans to revive that highly promising potential.

One thing strikes me. Time and again, colonial and later day officials come up with the idea of making the peasants grow some new commercial crop. No peasant is consulted; no serious feasibility study is undertaken; the initial planning is poor and hurried. It usually meets resistance from below; direct and indirect coercion persuades some farmers to grow the crop; the success attained is minimal. The soil is unsuitable, or the market not adequate. Eventually, it is abandoned. The region awaits another day a bureaucrat has another brilliant idea.

Other than this informal foray into local history, I undertake a formal one. I meet Abdul Sheriff, a rising star in history at UDSM, during a visit. He has read my paper on education for self-reliance.

Karim, would you like to write a paper on the history of the education system in Tanzania during the German colonial era? I have access to archival material in Germany. We are in the process of translating those records into English. I can give what we have to you, and you can work on it.

My interest is piqued. With much time to spare, what do I have to lose? Sure, I say. Armed with three typed rolls of archival material and several history texts, I begin the work in Sumbawanga. By the time my family and I depart from this place, I am half way done. I present the paper at a conference on the history of colonial mainland Tanzania held at UDSM in 1978. It comes out later as a chapter in a book edited by HY Kaniki, Tanganyika Under Colonial Rule (Kaniki 1980, Hirji 1980).

My paper reinforces the Marxist thesis that the structure and function of the education system in society accords with the interests of the dominant class. In normal times, it plays a role in the formation and consolidation of the existing social structures. But at critical moments in history, elements of the education system pose a challenge to that structure. In the period I cover, the later aspect does not manifest itself in a marked way.

Education can block fundamental change, or it can enhance such change. That is a crucial message of history. For us, the educators, the choice is: serve the status quo or educate in ways that will promote equality and social justice.

BOOKSHOP

My elder brother, Mohamed, suffers from a mental condition, schizophrenia. For about eight years, he has regularly gone through an unpleasant cycle: uncontrolled behavior, hospitalization for a couple of months, release and a few months of respite. Then it starts over again.

A year into our stay in Sumbawanga, I suggest to my father that he could come and stay with us. I would find a gainful activity for him. My father happily agrees, though mother is understandably reluctant.

One person I now know well is Pyrali Meghji, elder brother of my UDSM comrade, Ramzan Meghji. Currently unwell and unemployed, he can maintain a minimum level of subsistence for himself and his family. Financial assistance from his brothers keeps him afloat. But it is irregular and small. His backyard has a small shed that opens outwards. It can be converted into a small shop with minimal repair.

I suggest to him that it become a books and stationery shop that would be run by Mohamed. His task is to do the repairs. I will do the rest: get a couple of wood shelves, a glass cabinet, a chair, a sturdy lock and the merchandise for the shop. The profits from the venture would be split on a fifty-fifty basis between him and my brother. Pyarali agrees and embarks on the repairs. I find second hand shelves and the cabinet from town merchants. Then I write a letter to my brother.*

September 1974

Dear Mohamed:

How are you and how is everyone at home. Fine I hope.

I am writing to you about the possibility of you coming to Sumbawanga and starting a bookshop. There is not a single bookshop in this town, so I think the prospects are good. I have already acquired a room for the shop. Some minor repairs have to be done, the place has to be painted, and the furniture has to be bought before the shop can be started. All this should be ready in about two months.

In the meantime, you should do the following. First register yourself as a member of TANU and get a TANU card. This will be necessary in order to get a trading license. You should post the card to me as soon as you get it. Then you should go to Elimu Supplies and inquire about the prices of things like stationery, pens, minor office equipment, etc. But don’t buy anything at the moment. The bookshop can initially stock the following types of items: stationery, pens, newspapers, magazines, novels, story books, educational books, toys. And miscellaneous items.

Let me know your views as soon as possible. Regards to all at home.

Yours, Karim

Happily, Mohamed is all for it. Our father accompanies him on his bus trip. He is now relieved to see us in a better house. Mohamed sleeps in the extra bedroom. Rosa gets along with him splendidly, always crawling up to him to be carried and taken out, which he invariably does.

Mohamed has brought the merchandise which I had ordered. It is a modest start: Thirty books, four dozen notebooks of varied sizes, two packs of ball point pens and pencils, six writing pads, paper clips, stapler and staples, rulers, coloring pencils, pencil sharpeners, erasers, elastic bands and items like small balls and balloons. Apart from books, two town merchants carry such items. But the Sumbawanga Bookstore is the first dedicated book and stationary shop in this area.

I put the equivalent of two months of my gross salary into the project. Father also makes a contribution. If all goes well, Mohamed and Pyarali can make a decent living from it as it takes root and expands.

Trading begins as desired. Opening the shop door at 10 each weekday morning, Mohamed runs it until 2:30 pm, returning home in time for the family lunch. Farida helps him maintain the accounts and control the cash. The net profit in the first month is 100 shillings, less than a tenth of my salary, and for the second month, it is 150 shillings. Both those amounts are evenly split between the partners.
In the third month, it gets unhinged. Mohamed is erratic at home. It is difficult for him to sleep. He paces up and down in his room well after midnight. After opening the shop, he walks around town, leaving it susceptible to theft. Medicines from the local doctor do not affect his mood. He clearly needs specialized psychiatric care in Dar es Salaam. To our dismay, he has to return to Dar es Salaam. Rafik, my young brother, comes to take him back.

+ + + + + + +

Comment: Only much later do I come to discern the root of the problem. He had come here with a three month supply of his medication. It has unpleasant side effects: dryness of mouth, tremors, tongue protrusion, etc. When he feels better, he skips on his dose. The dosage needs to be gradually reduced so as to maintain a balance between stability and undesired effects. This crucial matter has not been communicated to our father or me by his psychiatrist. We are not told that he will need his medicine for a life time, but the dose has to be modified according to his status.

Doctors are good at writing prescriptions but weak at conveying crucial information in an understandable manner to the patients. It has a negative effect on the long term outcome of mental conditions. Patients and their supporters must be informed that the withdrawal effects of psychiatric drugs can often be more unpleasant than the symptoms of the disease.

Yet, doctors begin with doses that are too high. They do not well attend to the choice of the drug. Of the many available, careful trials are needed to select the most suitable for each patient, as well as the dose needed. They also do not stress the centrality of gradually tapering the dosage. Thereby too many patients suffer needlessly and manageable cases turn into chronically unstable cases, as was the case with my brother (Whitaker 2010, 2011).

+ + + + + + +

The short lived Sumbawanga Bookstore carried three types of books: a third were books for schools, another third were popular Swahili and English novels, and the rest, books on current affairs, history and politics. In the last category were progressive works like Walter Rodney’s How Europe Underdeveloped Africa, Frantz Fanon’s The Wretched of the Earth, Kwame Nkrumah’s Neo-Colonialism: The Last Stage of Imperialism, The Autobiography of Malcolm X, and William Hinton’s Fanshen: Fanshen: A Documentary of Revolution in a Chinese Village. (Fanon 1965; Hinton and Magdoff 2008; Nkrumah 1966; Rodney 1972).

Books in the first two categories have a good turnover. Those in the last one mostly remain on the shelves. At the end, I donate some to colleagues at work and Pyarali. The only person who buys a couple of books of this type is from the regional security service. I once see two of them talking. One has a copy of The Wretched of the Earth in his hand. Are they investigating what this radical exile from the university is now up to? Anyways, I hope they did learn something in the process.

All in all, I report with sadness that my effort to assist my brother and, in the process, introduce progressive ideas in this intellectual hinterland were both majestic failures. It is a financial setback too. I console myself by saying that at least I gave it a reasonable try.

NATIONAL EXAMINATIONS

I am fortunate to be able to maintain, even in this isolated place, a connection with the profession I want to pursue. In 1972, while at the UDSM, I was appointed as a marker for the national Form VI exam in Statistics. The following year, my role was upgraded. I set the two exam papers for the subject, prepare the marking scheme, oversee the marking and am made a member of the national subject committee. I continuously serve in this capacity until 1977.

The National Examination Council of Tanzania is in charge of the entire exercise. My particular assignment comes under the able chairmanship of Dr GRV Mmari, the coordinator for all the mathematics related examinations.

By the time I am dispatched to Sumbawanga, I have set the examination papers for the year 1974. Later I receive the summons to participate in marking, scheduled for December. My boss raises no objections.

On the set date, I report at the Kibaha Secondary School, one of the national marking centers. Located twenty six miles from Dar es Salaam, it is my former high school. I see hundreds of teachers and some lecturers from UDSM congregated here. It is endearing to meet friends and past students. My buddy Shiraz Ramji, who sets the A-Level Modern Mathematics papers, is invariably present at these gatherings. While in Sumbawanga, I set the papers for the 1975 Statistics exam.

Form VI Statistics is a specialized subject taught at only four schools. Usually, about half the exam candidates are private candidates. During the years I was involved, the total number of registered candidates varied between twenty to fifty. And not all turned up for the examination.

For Statistics, there are but two markers. My partner marks Paper I, I mark Paper II. When done, we audit each other’s work to ensure that all papers are graded fairly and as required. Then I compile the marks for each candidate and write out the subject report.

As the setter, I am required to ensure that the exam questions reflect the syllabus and are at the appropriate standard. A moderator reviews my draft before it is finalized. Our aim is to maintain the standard set in the Cambridge High School Certificate Examination. Yet, over the years, it declines as topics like analysis of variance, bivariate distributions, study design and survey methods are deleted from the Tanzanian syllabus. Further, like exam paper setters for other subjects, I have to follow a strict procedural guideline to ensure complete confidentiality and secrecy.

I maintain a balance between theory and applications related questions, with the latter based on local data of relevance to social and economic development. Some reflect the socialistic orientation of the era. For example, one question talks of rate of surplus value instead of rate of profit, and another, about measures of income inequality.

In any year, the pass rate does not exceed 50%. Often it is less. The marks can range from 2 points to 85 points out of a total of 100. Several reasons contribute to this lackluster outcome. The few qualified teachers for this subject need retraining. Textbooks with relevant, realistic examples do not exist. I raise these issues in the committee meetings. Other apparently more urgent matters take a priority. For, the bigger problem is that the pass rate in all mathematics related papers, in O-Level and A-Level examinations, are abysmally low. It is a perennial malady that has not been remedied as I write these words in the year 2018.

My recollection has it that Statistics was removed as a high school course in 1980. During the time it was offered, I played my part to nurture and sustain it. In the years 1974 and 1975, that work provided a needed respite from the monotony of inane bureaucratic life in Sumbawanga. During marking it is refreshing to see hundreds of hardworking teachers busy from dawn to dusk grading the hundreds of scripts piled in front of them. It is heartening to see the supervisors applying due diligence to ensure that grading uniformity is maintained with random spot and script checks. It is an atmosphere enjoining banter with seriousness. My specific task takes three to four days. The rest of the time, I help the overall coordinator in other duties. During the entire week I feel unusually cheerful. For this is the only activity that helps me retain a formal link with the subject to which I seek to devote my professional life.

PLANNING AND DATA COLLECTION

My boss is rarely in his office. At times he attends a meeting in Mbeya or Dar es Salaam. This is what I learn from John, though he does not know their purpose. At other times, the RPO goes, in an office Landrover, to townships and villages in Rukwa Region. Once in a while, John is asked to accompany him. These are called ‘project inspection and data collection’ trips. I am puzzled about the numeric information emanating from these trips, for I never see so much as a sliver of such data. My perplexity ends after six months on the job. On a bright day, my boss tells me: